Been Through Hell
by any-otp-will-do
Summary: "i need all the fic where allison comes back from the dead but she's still dead so like she's their zombie huntress. of course she's made of magic so she gets stuck by mountain ash, too" -Tylerfucklin I am a sucker for prompts that are addressed to no one in particular.
1. Chapter 1

Allison woke with screams in her ears. Shrill, powerful screams she doesn't recognize. She opened her eyes and they strained to make anything out through the blackness. It was silent. The screams were just an echo in the stuffed cotton silence that plugged up her ears and settled on her body like a heavy blanket. She reached up to scratch her nose and punched something hard covered by something soft.

"Fuck. What the hell?" She breathed, a feeling of claustrophobia setting in as she realized she was closed in all sides. She felt around, her fingers met satin and padding with wood underneath it. Her eyes widened as she realized where she was.

"I'm in a coffin!?" She nearly shrieked. The noise was loud in her ears. She felt above her, trying to gauge how much room she had. She raised her body a few inches before she felt the press of softness that meant the lid of the coffin. "Fuck."

Allison pressed her hands firmly against the lid, hoping it would swing open and she would simply be able to walk away. How was she supposed to get out? Assuming she was already buried, she'd have to break through the coffin and then dig her way out. She considered how she would manage that as she slowly turned on her side. Thankfully, she was thin and she could move on to her back without getting stuck.

She curled her legs under her slowly, using the strength of her arms and legs to push her back up, thinking she may use the extra power to open the lid, but it was no use. Allison gritted her teeth in frustration, turning back onto her back.

She felt something against her foot. It was hard. She nudged it upwards with her toes, unable to reach down and simply grab it. It took several minutes of diplomatic scooting with various parts of her body, but eventually, she could brush her fingertips across it. She bent her legs and grabbed it. It was a set of daggers. She felt around with her feet for anything else, but couldn't find anything else.

She took the dagger set into her hands, feeling four rings, the blades covered by leather sheathes. She released one, instinctively checking the sharpness.

She lifted the blade to the lining of the coffin and sliced at the satin until it gave way. There was a pillow stuffing material that she could feel with her fingers. Sadly, her eyes could not adjust to the darkness. With an absolute lack of light, there was no vision available whatsoever.

She ripped the cloth and stuffing out of the way and pressed the tip of the dagger into the wood. It was not very soft, but hopefully four daggers would be enough before they all wore down. Allison scratched an X into the wood so she could find spot with the tip of the daggers. She stuffed the other three knives into her belt so she wouldn't lose track of them.

She scratched away at the surface, until she could feel fibers raining down on her. She spluttered at the intrusion, squeezing her eyes closed. Thankfully, no splinters fell in her eyes. She put the knife down by her side and pulled her arms into her shirt. She pulled it up as best she would so her eyes and mouth were hidden by the cloth. She reached out through the bottom of her shirt and lifted her arms again. This time, when the splinters fell, they were caught.

It felt like days. She was surprised at her arms for staying as strong as they did. For some reason the ache did not course through her muscles as they should have. In the back of her mind she questioned her sanity, wondering if she was having another Barto dream, but she pushed it back, settling on escaping first.

After two blades dulled and stopped working effectively, she pulled back and felt along the set she had made. It was about five inches deep and two feet in diameter. Growing impatient, she sheathed a dull blade and held it by the leather. Bracing herself, she reached back as far as she could an slammed her hand forward. The ring of the dagger connected with the wood and released a muffled crack. She smiled to herself. She had to be pretty close to the surface. She beat at the wood until the beams separated. She jammed the edge of the blade into the crevice she made, jimmying the blade up and down. The sound of wood being pulled apart and a this of more matter on the material of her shirt. She smelled dirt.

_Good news, I'm making progress. Bad news, I'm definitely in the ground._

She slowly pried the boards apart, and more dirt fell into the coffin. _Oh god, I hope it's not raining._

Soon she was impatient with the sluggish pace of the blade, and she reached up to the ragged wood and grasped it tightly. Using all her strength, she ripped at the boards, ignoring the splinters that embedded in her palms. She used her elbows to make the hole bigger. (All this time she marveled at how little pain she felt. Maybe she had been drugged?) As more silt and soil fell in, she pushed it to the bottom of the coffin. It was probably another hour before she could slip her head and arms out. She packed the dirt on either side of the hole, making the beginnings of a tunnel. If the dirt wasn't solid, it would cave in on her and she would suffocate. (Why she hasn't already, she doesn't know.)  
As she scooped dirt from over her head, she would pack it into the walls around her or drop it into the coffin. The air pocket that was the coffin was the only way she was going to be able to get out. /science/ she thought.

Despite tying her shirt tighter around her head, dirt made its way under the material and into her eyes. She had no time to worry about that. With her legs still straightened and in the coffin, she had to figure how to get them out. She couldn't just lift them out, but if she tried to break away more if the coffin, the tunnel would cave. She lifted the lid as much as she could without displacing too much dirt and slid her legs under her. They got stuck.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

She was going to have to angle her tunnel and hope gravity would cooperate. She began digging behind her head, creating an angle that would allow her to make her body a straight line. After a foot or so, she could painfully pull her legs free. She was three or four feet above the coffin now. She dug straight up again, desperation driving her now. She moved wildly, using her hysteria to fuel her upwards.

When she first felt her hand breach the surface she felt a euphoria like none other. She could have cried with relief as she pushed herself up and out. Sweet, cold air swept into her lungs with bruising intensity. The darkness was cool and comforting after the stale air that was her breath trapped in a small space. Her eyes finally began to take in images again, aided by the singular street lamp about forty feet away.

She took enough time to get her bearings and know where she was. The local cemetery. "What kind of sick person...?"

She made a quick decision. She needed help. Whoever buried her alive might still be after her. She was too far away from home to walk their quickly. She ran to the first place she thought of. Scott.

There was no car in the driveway, but she hammered on the door anyway. Maybe he was home and it was just his mom who was out. There was no answer. She scoped the height of the roof and decided to climb up to his room. She clambered up the porch and grabbed hold of the siding. Swinging herself up was a lot easier than it should have been, especially considering the strenuous work she'd been doing since she woke up.

She knocked on his window, peering in and attempting to see his silhouette. She knew she must look like hell, considering her splintery hands and dirt streaked body. She just hoped he wouldn't attack her. Scott's face appeared suddenly and she jumped back in surprise. The glass slid up and her peered at her.

"Allison?"


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, Scott, thank fuck. I need to come in. Someone's after me." Allison rushed. She barely waited for him to step aside before tumbling through the window. She grabbed him up in a hug and he froze in surprise.

"Allison, you're covered in dirt. Why are you so cold?" He hesitantly wrapped his arms around her waist. He seemed wrong. He wasn't acting normally. Why wasn't he hugging her back, kissing her like he should—

She remembered the break-up. She pulled away from him gently and cast her eyes to the ground. "Some sick bastard locked me in a coffin and buried me in the cemetery. I had to dig my way out!" Her eyes flashed as she looked at him.

"The ceme—oh god." Scott groaned. "This isn't a dream."

"What?"

"I have to call Stiles." Scott breathed and snatched his phone off his bedside table. "You just, stay there."

Allison made a face as he stepped into the hallway. "Scott, what's going on?"

She walked out and pressed her ear to his door, listening as he whispered intently. She couldn't really hear much of what he was saying, except when his voice rose in urgency.

"_Yes, Stiles… really here…_"

"_I don't!_—no_, I don't think she does either…_"

"_Dirt… really pale too_…"

"_What do I…?_"

"Yeah, okay." The phone beeped and she backed up so she wouldn't get hit by the door as he bustled back in. She made no move to hide the fact that she was listening.

"What was that about?" She quirked an eyebrow at him.

Scott made a face and averted his eyes. "_I don't think I can do this." _He muttered under his breath. He looked up and his eyes were wet. "Allison, do you remember what happened to you?"

"I remember waking up in a coffin and digging my way out. I don't remember how I got there or who put me there." She watched his face closely, brow furrowed. "Scott, why are you upset?" She moved towards him, but he made an aborted movement to stop her. She dropped her hands and respected his need for space. After all, she had broken up with him… but she thought that he still wanted to be with her. What happened?

"Stiles should be here soon. We'll figure this out." Scott started pacing, glancing out the window.

"Scott, I don't know what's wrong with you, but I was just buried alive. I'm a bit traumatized and I want to know what's going on. Who'd want to come after me?"

"No one's after you." He replied, distracted.

"How can you say that? I didn't bury myself, did I?" Sarcasm dripped from her words. He didn't answer, just stared out the window waiting for Stiles. Allison moved to his bed and sat on the edge. She wasn't tired, strangely, but she needed to distract herself. She picked at the loose threads on the comforter.

She heard the faint rumble of a car and the sound of an engine shutting off. Stiles did not sound graceful, with a few scrambling noises and the thud of a car door shutting. She looked out the window to see him booking it to the house. Allison folded her arms across her chest and looked at Scott expectantly as he turned to the door. Naturally, she followed him down the stairs to the backdoor where he let Stiles in.

Stiles panted as he looked her up and down. His eyes widened as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. He stood up straight, lifting his hand to rub the back of his neck. "It's definitely her. Almost exactly the same." He tossed a significant look at Scott before pushing his way past them both to turn on the light. "Holy god," he flinched. "You're pale as… well, a ghost."

"Don't, Stiles." Scott snapped.

Stiles held back a laugh. "Sorry, couldn't resist. And you can touch her?" He poked her arm. "Yep, this apparition is solid."

Allison swatted at his hand. "Okay, seriously. What's wrong with you two?" She huffed as Stiles stepped back and turned to Scott.

"So she doesn't know?"

Scott shook his head. "Apparently not."

"Right. Allison, you might want to sit down for this one." Stiles said. She rolled her eyes at him and raised her eyebrows. "Oookay. Well, long story short: you died just recently."

Scott dropped his head in his hand. "Tactless, Stiles."

"Well, how am I supposed to sugar coat something like—"

"Haha, very funny." Allison quipped.

"Actually, I am very serious. Dead. Very much dead. Like bleeding out on the ground, final words, coffin and buried, dead." Stiles did not look like he was even remotely joking.

"You don't remember?" Scott asked gently. He moved closer, hesitantly. "You were stabbed straight through the abdomen. The blade clipped the edge of your heart…"

Allison grabbed at her stomach. There was a raised bump between her ribs. She slowly lifted her shirt to see a puckered scar. She felt the slice, the wind knocked out of her. Her knees wobbled and she grabbed the counter for support, the dark of that night behind her eyes, an echo of a scream in her ears. "I—"

Scott grabbed her hand. "Yeah."

"But, but I'm not dead!" Allison's voice rose hysterically.

"Well, you're definitely not as dead as you used to be." Stiles muttered.

"Not helping, Stiles." Scott stood up straight. "What do we do?"

"Let's start with some coffee?" He suggested.

"Yeah." Allison agreed shakily. "And let's call Lydia." When Stiles and Scott looked at each other nervously, she rolled her eyes. "Oh please, Lydia is the smartest of all of us. She's level-headed, clever, and pretty good with dead things. Plus, she's my best friend. If you don't call her, I will."

As Scott went out to call Lydia, Stiles pulled out the coffee grounds. Allison sat down at the table and put her head in her hands. It was the first time she felt weak since she woke up. If she was dead and is no longer that means she is undead. She's a—

"Stiles, I'm a zombie."

He looked up a bit. "Wait—"

"I'm a zombie. Holy shit."

"Do you have any cravings for human flesh?" Stiles half joked.

Allison surprised herself by chuckling. "I don't think so. I'll keep you posted."

Stiles smiled and the smell of coffee filled the kitchen. He sat next to her and patted her hand. "I believe in zombie equality." She half smiled. "No, but really. We'll figure this out, okay? Don't worry."

"I'm not worried, Stiles. Just a bit freaked out."

"That's understandable." He allowed. "After all, you were dead for a few days. You are in very good shape, for a corpse."

Allison gasped and looked down at herself. She didn't really think about that, honestly. Her arms were pale, but not mottled. She searched for any signs of death, signs of rotting. All her limbs were intact, although she had a gash on her leg full of splinters. She hadn't even noticed that. It was probably from the coffin. It was barely bleeding, so she disregarded it.

"I have a serious question." She looked at Stiles intently.

"Yeah?"

"Do I smell like death?"

* * *

Lydia tapped her foot impatiently as Scott opened the door. Allison waited on baited breath for a scream that did not come. Her hair was in a messy bun and she was still wearing her pajamas. She looked around wildly until Allison was in her sights, her eyes widening. Lydia ran forward and grabbed her friend's arms, staring into her eyes intently. Having found whatever proof she needed, she gathered Allison into her arms and squeezed her tightly. Allison's hands came up to her back to rub away the tremors she felt soaking into her body.

Lydia sniffed in her ear. "I thought I'd never see you again." She whispered brokenly. She cleared her throat and stepped back. "Right. How did this happen?"

Scott faltered under her accusatory glare, but Stiles laughed. "We don't even know."

"People don't just come back from the dead, Stiles."

"Does it matter?" Scott asked. "Can't we just go on like nothing's wrong?"

Allison flinched at the idea. "No way. It's important to figure out why I'm back."

"What do you remember?" Lydia turned to Allison.

"I remember the night when I was killed. I remember waking up. I remember… screams." Allison thought back to when she first woke up. "I didn't recognize them. There were too many all at once."

"That Meredith chick, she mentioned something about all the banshees screaming. All of them at once." Stiles commented.

"Meredith?" Allison looked between them all.

"She's a banshee. Like me." Lydia explained. "But—"

"But she's bat-shit crazy cakes." Stiles interjected.

"_She _has been moved from institution to institution and treated like a mental patient, but is actually not crazy at all." Lydia clenched her teeth. "Meredith didn't have my resources. She was shut away and all the medication kept her from growing up normally. She's eccentric. That's all."

Stiles put his hands up in surrender.

"Where is she?" Allison questioned.

"She's been staying with Derek. We didn't want to send her back to the mental house, but she's not actually supposed to be out. They think she's dangerous." Scott added quickly.

"Let's get a few hours of sleep and go see her." Allison suggested. Lydia nodded in agreement, while Stiles made a face but didn't argue.

"You can stay here." Scott directed them all into the living room and pulled blankets and pillows out of the hallway closet. Allison curled up on an armchair and peered into the darkness. Scott's eyes flashed and she tucked a pillow to her stomach, only too aware of the closed wound on her abdomen.


End file.
